So many commas…commas everywhere…like the hoofprints of tiny commalopes…pounding on punctuated feet across my monitor, crushing everything in their path. They’ll find me splayed out across the chair, an expression of appropriately hackneyed stark terror ‘pon my face, with the Mark of the Commalope stamped into my forehead.
If, through rapidly applied cardio-whatsit paddles, I am briefly roused, I will gaze blindly up into the face of the EMT and grasp his lapels in shaking fingers and whisper “…ia…you must know…it was not me…it was…the commas…the commas in the walls!”
